Anew

Chapter Five: The Aftermath, Part Two

Things alter for the worse spontaneously, if they be not altered for the better designedly.

~Francis Bacon

The overgrown grass pricked his skin and snaked up the legs of his trousers like so many snakes, but Ron barely felt it.

He and Hermione were walking towards the front door of his house, his hand still clasped in hers. Before, his whole body would have been tingling with the sensation; now, it was a distant contact that he was grateful for, but to which he didn't really have a response.

Not that he hadn't had enough of a response in front of her. He had cried in front of Hermione. He tried to tell himself that Hermione wasn't like that and wouldn't judge him, but he couldn't really make himself believe it. Very little of his mind was concerned with the grass against his skin or even Hermione's skin against his skin. At any other point in time, he was sure that that thought would have preoccupied his mind for hours.

But not now.

Those superficial thoughts were shoved into the corner of his brain, cut off from the rest by a huge black impenetrable wall that he supposed was permanent. Everything seemed distant, foreign. Even his front door, one of the most familiar objects to his eyes and something that he had hoped would fill him with relief, looked alien.

Distantly, he knew that they had Apparated into the land around the Burrow because of the wards and protection spells around the house, and that inside would be his family, but his mind felt like a radio when he couldn't get the right channel: all he heard was static and meaningless sound, interjected with the occasional familiar word or phrase.

Hermione had said nothing since the Great Hall, and he was appreciative for that. He wasn't sure he would be able to respond to her right now and he enjoyed the outward silence.

The first thing he saw when they entered the house was the kitchen. And it in, Bill and Charlie. His older brothers were sitting next to each other at the table, cups of steaming liquid clutched in their hands. They looked up when he and Hermione entered and looks of relief came upon their faces.

"Thank Merlin," muttered Bill, slumping in his seat, as Charlie got up to hug both of them.

"We were wondering where everyone was," explained Charlie as he sat back down.

Hermione led Ron to a seat and asked, sitting down as well, "What do you mean? Isn't everyone here?"

Bill shook his head and leaned forward in his chair. "Percy and George are upstairs, but Mum, Dad, Harry, and Ginny aren't here."

Hermione gaped at him. "We thought everyone was here. You don't know where they are?" She looked at the clock on the wall. The hands for Bill, Charlie, Ron, Percy, and George were all pointed to "Home," Mr. Weasley and Ginny's hands were pointed to "School," Mrs. Weasley's was at "Hospital," but Fred's hand... it was moving in slow, sweeping circles around the face of the clock, as if he was in a place where time could not follow.

Charlie followed Hermione's gaze with a pained expression on her face.

"Can you get in contact with them?" asked Hermione, turning away from the clock.

"Not if we don't know where they are," answered Bill, and when Hermione gestured towards the clock, added, "That doesn't give us specifics, like what room to floo into or where exactly to Apparate. Plus, the hospital and Hogwarts are either packed with people or highly secured." He sighed. "I guess we'll just have to wait."

There was a silence.

Ron realized distantly that Charlie was looking at him. "I'm fine," he said, an answer to the unasked question.

Charlie nodded, but said nothing. Ron could tell he didn't believe him. Even Hermione cautiously looked sideways at him. Ron ignored both of them.

He tore his eyes away from the clock- which he had been staring at since entering the kitchen- and looked instead at the steam sifting up from the mugs on the table. What was that term he had learned in Potions? The act of going from a solid to vapor... Sublimation. That was it. Being there one minute, and then poof- you're gone in a moment.

Like Fred.

Hermione cleared her throat. "What-what's that?" she asked, motioning towards the mugs.

"Tea," Bill told her. "Want some?"

Hermione shook her head. "Ron?" she asked.

He turned to her. Her expression when she looked at him looked concerned and alarmed. He wondered how he looked. Badly, he expected.

He shook his head and tilted his head back to look up into the kitchen light. It blinded him, but he didn't close his eyes. He was beginning to think that it was better not to see what was right in front of him.

"So," asked Hermione, and even though Ron couldn't see her, her voice sounded as thin and insubstantial as the narrow rise of steam that had come from the tea, "now we wait?"

Ron heard Charlie respond. "Now we wait."

For what? Ron thought, finally closing his eyes to block out the light, and bright spots of color snapped and broke like fireworks behind his closed lids. Wait for what?

***

Jace had been waiting for something that would steal Potter away from him, so he wasn't really surprised when Arthur Weasley burst in.

After all, he had Harry Potter on the day he had killed Voldemort. That was quite impressive, if he thought so himself. But ten minutes was nothing compared to how much time he really needed with the boy. Harry was the key to finishing the puzzle, ending this situation, and no one really understood that, save for The Force.

Not that they had been The Force for awhile. They may have been the best-- actually, who was he kidding? They were the best-- and the most skilled at combat and detection, but they were also the most obvious targets when Voldemort began to take over.

Luckily, they were also smart.

Very, very smart. They got out of the Ministry quickly and silently; it was a lost cause and a sacrificial lamb that could not be saved no matter what they did. So, yes, they left it to Voldemort. The Chief had taken that hit hard, but in stride. He saved them, kept them as a unified organization even when they were forced to split up and go into hiding.

That was when they realized just how outnumbered they were.

"Don't be idiots," the Chief had told them so many months ago. "You're going to win this fight. But not by brute force and foolish bravery." Jace remembered the Chief looking at him in particular at that statement. "Your best weapons at this point are stealth, secrecy, and realism. You don't just have to win," he had told them with a grim determination, "you have to be here afterwards."

It became clear very soon, however, that even the Chief was being optimistic. Many men never made it to afterwards; they had lost a third of The Force during the war: some to Voldemort's men, some to Voldemort's side. Jace felt that betrayal like a sharp knife between his shoulder blades every time he thought about it.

The worst had been when they lost Hogwarts. It was bad when they lost the Ministry, but that was already corrupt, an obvious lost cause, and filled mostly with Death Eaters. Hogwarts may have also been filled with Death Eaters, but it was also filled with children.

Jace had wanted to do something, anything, to get it back. He remembered that night in that cave in Ireland, all dark, cold nights and ominous noises in the distance. Surrounded by the Chief, Lafayette, and Linton, Jace had proposed an attack on the school.

The Chief had shot him down. His reasons were predictable: they were outnumbered; it was suicidal; Dumbledore had predicted that Hogwarts would fall and not to do anything rash about it and risk heavy losses on their side.

That was when Jace was reminded that the Chief had been in continuous contact with the Headmaster before his death. From what Jace knew, Dumbledore, who had gone to school with the Chief and been with him on the Wizengamot, talked to the Chief about what would happen during Voldemort's reign. Not that Dumbledore was a Seer, but he did have a rather creepy knack for predicting future events. He prepared the Chief, who in turn prepared The Force, for what would happen. He was actually the one who recommended that they succeed from the Ministry as soon as they felt the hint of a threat. But, being Aurors, they did not feel threatened easily, and stayed longer than they should have. They paid for it in the lives of several of their men.

It had been agony laying low and hiding out in mountains, caves, abandoned Muggle houses, anywhere and everywhere for months and months, when he wanted to fight, and all he could do was sit and plan for later. But Jace had followed orders, and he had survived. And, as promised, he had made it to the aftermath.

And now he needed Potter.

But now Arthur was about to take the boy away for Merlin knew how long.

Which was why, when Arthur Weasley did burst in, Jace moved imperceptibly closer to Harry as if he was about to grab Harry, run, tie the boy up, and shove a tape recorder under his nose for several days until he had gotten all the information he needed- not that he would do such a thing.

Although, he had to admit, it was tempting.

"Jace," panted Arthur, slightly out of breath, "I've just talked to Kingsley and Johnson. They said you probably had gotten a hold of Harry." His gaze settled on Potter for a moment, and then the girl (probably his daughter, with that red hair) over by the other wall. "I really should have known. You never did do anything halfway." He then grabbed the small, red-haired girl in a hug and they went over to Jace and Harry in the corner.

The Chief joined them while the rest of the Aurors watched curiously for a moment before returning to their assignments.

"Chief," Arthur said briefly, shaking the older man's hand firmly and quickly. He appeared to be rather harried; his thinning hair was disheveled and his robes were twisted around him at an odd angle. He then turned to Jace. "I know you need to talk to Harry. Johnson told me as much-"

The Chief raised his eyebrows. "How did you manage to speak to the Minister of Magic and the head of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement today, Arthur? I doubt Harry himself could request a meeting right now much less-"

"Yes, well," Arthur interrupted briskly, and Jace scowled at him for it. "Kingsley showed up for about a minute a couple of hours ago and he directed me to Johnson because he had to get back to the Ministry. Johnson had a bit more time and he told as much as he could about what was going on, but then he had to leave as well to get to a meeting with Kingsley and he told me to find Jace if I wanted to find Harry right about now."

The Chief shot an amused look at Jace. "That's Jace for you. I knew if anyone could hunt Harry Potter down right now, he could."

Jace tried not to look too pleased with himself.

Suddenly, the girl spoke. "Dad," she said, tugging on Arthur's cloak, "where's-"

"At home," answered Arthur before looking at the Chief. "Listen, I know you need to talk to Harry, but it's been a long day and I need to get the rest of my family home now. I can owl you in the morning about-"

"Arthur," said the Chief seriously. "Every minute that we waste is another Death Eater that walks. I can't take that kind of risk-"

"The Death Eaters aren't going anywhere," answered Arthur firmly. "Johnson told me that upwards of thirty have already been contained."

"Thirty out of hundreds," answered the Chief. "If we want to get the rest, we're going to need to talk to Potter as soon as possible."

"I doubt there are hundreds," muttered Arthur, but then added at the Chief's quelling gaze, "but I will talk to Harry about a meeting, but in the end it's his choice-"

Jace's eyes flicked to the boy that was the center everything. He was looking at Arthur and the Chief as if he was watching a duel, and every so often, his eyes would dart towards the girl. The girl would meet his gaze and then she also would look back at the argument.

And it was definitely an argument.

Arthur was not doing himself any favors by messing with the Chief, who outranked him. And Arthur wasn't even the boy's legal guardian. Harry was technically an adult. Arthur was right; it was the boy's choice.

The Chief was about to open his mouth to respond to Arthur, but Jace beat him to it. "Tomorrow," he said, sounding unnaturally quiet after all the raised voices. Harry, the Chief, Arthur, and the girl all stared at him. Jace cleared his throat. "Tomorrow morning, Potter. Come to the Ministry and we can work out some sort of arrangement."

There was short silence. Even the Chief didn't say anything, not even a reprimand. All eyes were on Harry.

The boy looked up at Jace evenly. His eyes were unnervingly green and serious behind his glasses, and Jace couldn't help thinking they were out of place on the face of a boy who was only seventeen.

"Tomorrow," agreed Harry.

Arthur bid a hasty good-bye to him and the Chief, motioned for Harry and the girl to follow him, and walked with them out the door to the Great Hall.

When they were gone, the Chief turned to him. "You overruled me, Smith."

"I know."

Another pause. Jace held his breath, waiting.

"Good work."

Jace looked up and met the Chief's gaze. His eyes were almost unreadable, but Jace detected a hint of respect behind them before the Chief led him to the table in the center of the room and began delegating to the surrounding Aurors.

"Now," he said, pointing to one of the maps, "I first want Section B covered and searched by Team F2. That's a priority area that was popular last time. Check the caves and empty houses, anywhere that makes you suspicious. I've also received intelligence that..."

Jace struggled to pay attention to the Chief's commands even though he knew he wasn't going anywhere soon. The Chief would want him when they met with Potter tomorrow. Jace felt his heart speed up despite himself. This was what he had waited so long for, what he had dreamt about in those dank, dark places he had been forced into. Potter would have all the answers.

He was counting on it.

***

Ashley Hauck was having a bad day.

She was only on her first year of her internship at St. Mungo's and really was all that comfortable with the hospital yet. And now it was chaos, and she was supposed to know what to do, what to say, where to direct people, when she had no idea what was going on.

She, along with the other nurses in training, had been given information and directions a couple of hours ago: Voldemort had been defeated; bodies would soon be arriving in the dozens along with countless wounded because of the epic battle that some of them hadn't even heard about; all hands were needed because along with all the dead and wounded, hundreds of other people would be rushing in, demanding information about a family member who was missing.

"Direct them someplace," Marsh, her resident, had told her and the rest of the team, "and don't tell them you don't know what's going on, or I will hunt you down later. Give them some sort of information and move on quickly. This is going to be a hell of a week."

Week? Ashley had thought, alarmed.

But that had been awhile ago. Shaking her head, Ashley broke out of her reverie and tried to focus on what was going on in front of her now.

She had been assigned to the dead people, to put it bluntly, and their families. Marsh had told them that a lot of the families would know if one of their relatives had died; there had been countless lists posted up at Hogwarts and all along the walls of St. Mungo's like a twisted version of a plaque.

It was Ashley's job to inform the families about the following procedures that would be done, and then collect a lot of information from those families about the deceased.

It was its own form of hell.

Ashley had been at this for at least two hours and had gotten through about six families, each with their own story and lines of grief that stripped their faces of any other emotion. She hadn't really encountered anger or resentment; it was mostly desperation and the pure pain of loss.

Pure pain, Ashley thought, just as a woman rushed up to her, red hair disheveled and voice frantic.

"My son," she panted at Ashley, "my son-"

Ashley was almost used to this by now. She flipped open to a new piece of parchment on her clipboard and dipped her quill into a nearby inkpot. "If you can give me his name or other information, I should be able to direct you-"

"Fred Weasley," the woman said, her voice unraveling like lace.

She recognized the name - they been required to memorize the list - but tried to keep her face smooth and expressionless. "Relation?" asked Ashley. After all, she wasn't allowed to give out medical information to strangers.

"He's my son."

Ashley looked up from her parchment. As she had said, she was almost used to this. Almost. She was used to it enough that she could wipe her face clear of shock and pity when confronted with this sort of situation. She was able to calmly relay information without letting her voice crack under the strain when every word she said to a child, a father, a son, daughter, mother, spit them along the fraction line between before this horror and after.

But she couldn't completely grow accustomed to it.

She had been told years ago when she decided to be a Healer that this job would toughen her up, harden her. Being a Healer, she was informed, would change her. It was all about the technical aspects of life: the exact science of Potions, the complexity of healing spells, the basics of bone, flesh, and blood, the hard, straight, unarguable line between life and death. It left no room for emotion.

But Healing was blood magic, black chemistry, a shadow that followed her and showed, despite its darkness, the depths of emotion and the raw edge of pain. She had yet to see the lighter side of it. After all, to heal someone, you had to know what was wrong: where a hex had cut an organ in half, why a potion only burned away the right leg, and not the left; how to stop the bleeding when a curse had hit the carotid artery and the patient was bleeding out into her own two hands.

To heal someone from the darkest, blackest magics, you had to know them yourself.

It did change a person. It had changed her, but not enough that when she looked at this woman who had lost her son, she could not feel indifferent.

Ashley cleared her throat. "Do you know," she asked slowly, "if he-"

"He did," replied the woman, her breath hitching. She blinked hard. "I'm Molly Weasley. My son, Fred, he-" She broke off.

"Perhaps you would like to sit down?" offered Ashley, motioning to the chair nearest her with her clipboard.

Molly shook her head firmly and took a deep breath, stealing herself. Her voice came in a rush. "My son died in the battle. I was told by a Healer there that there would be an autopsy if the cause of death was unknown, but I know the cause and I was directed here from the front desk but I don't know if-"

Damn that Healer -whoever the hell she was- to the deepest pit of hell. That was confidential information, for Merlin's sake, that would just cause a panic. Why would she just announce something like that?

And, to make matters worse, that Healer didn't tell this woman the whole story. Hospital policy stated very clearly that when a death has an unknown cause or the death occurs under suspicious circumstances and was obviously not an accident, St. Mungo's has a right to do an autopsy. However- and this is what the Healer FAILED TO MENTION, thought Ashley bitterly- an autopsy is never performed before informing an immediate family member and getting consent. Legally, an autopsy couldn't be performed without consent from that immediate family member; sometimes, the hospital could go to court and appeal that decision if they feel that an autopsy is being declined because, for instance, they believe someone is trying to cover up a crime. Like if a man killed his brother with a killing curse, and he refuses to let his brother be autopsied because he doesn't want the hospital to find out the cause of death and connect that information to the inevitable investigation of his wand, which would show that his wand had performed a killing curse.

But the Healer Molly had talked to was obviously an idiot. It made sense; the most and least experienced Healers had been sent to Hogwarts: the stupid ones were sent to deal with the bodies (what more damage could they do to a dead person?), and the brilliant ones dealt with the injuries there. The Healer in question was, in Ashley's opinion, the former.

Ashley tried to explain all this to the woman the best she could while simultaneously directing other desperate people to some place or another in the hospital and shooting pleading glances to Beth, her fellow intern and friend across the room, to please get her the hell out of here.

Beth, however, was busy. She had been assigned to the wall with the pictures of the dead, which was even worse than Ashley's job. Since it would be begging for trouble to try to get the families to identify the bodies all at the same time with the actual bodies, just considering the sheer number of corpses, St. Mungo's had come up with an alternative plan.

Photos had been taken of the faces of each body and a corresponding number. Ashley had wondered how the hospital had gotten names for the list, and when she asked, Marsh told her that many people at Hogwarts had volunteered to identify the bodies. But since those people weren't usually official family members, St. Mungo's had to go through this arduous process as well.

The creepy thing about the photos was that they were the only wizarding pictures she had ever seen that were completely still.

Ashley collected a lot of information about Fred from his mother: date of birth, hair color, eye color, cause of death. Ashley also asked her questions: did she want an autopsy to be performed? No. Did she want to schedule a date to collect the body for a private burial or would she prefer St. Mungo's to do the transfer to a funeral home of her choice? St. Mungo's. Did she have any other questions? When would St. Mungo's transfer him? They would contact her within two to four days to set a date for transfer... Would she like to sit down? No, I just want to go home. Thank you for your help.

Ashley told the woman that she was welcome and to come back if she had any more questions. She said she was sorry for her loss, and she watched the mother walk away, grief threatening to bring her to her knees with every step.

Ashley then turned to help the next family. It was a man and a little boy, probably father and son. The man was looking for his wife, and told Ashley a name that she barely heard. The little boy was holding a teddy bear in one hand and one of his father's fingers in the other. He looked up at Ashley with clear blue eyes, looking lost and afraid.

It never ends, she thought, and flipped to a clean sheet of parchment to record the history of another person who had lost their future.

***

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" George asked his twin.

Fred grinned, his teeth a white flash in the darkness. "'Course it is. Now stop being a girl and hand me that hair clip...unless you'd rather keep it for yourself."

George scowled and handed his ten-year-old brother the small metal thing he had stolen from Ginny's room that afternoon. He watched Fred twist it into the lock of the broom shed, turning it this way and that way, his face tense and full of concentration.

"Got it," said Fred excitedly to George, his eyes bright, as they heard the lock click open.

Fred wrenched the door open and darted inside, his hair looking like a flash of fire, and came out a moment later with two brooms.

He tossed one to George, who grinned at him. "You're crazy," he said, with genuine admiration.

"Crazy brilliant is more like it, mate."

Mounting their brooms, the two flew into the night sky, dodging between trees and flying over open fields around the Burrow. The cool spring air whipped their hair around their faces and made their red pajamas, the ones with the green clovers on them, cling to their skin.

It was thrilling, stealing Bill and Charlie's brooms in the dead of night and actually flying on them. Sure, they weren't great brooms, but they could still go over the tops of trees and turn over in mid-air.

Which was what Fred, being Fred, tried to do. But, being only ten and not very experienced in flying, Fred fell to the ground, a twenty foot drop.

George saw Fred loose his grip and tumble through the air; diving across the garden towards his twin, George reached out his arm and grabbed Fred. Their combined unbalanced weight made George loose his broom and left them both tumbling through the air.

Luckily George had dived low to catch Fred, and they hit the ground after only falling about five feet. But it was enough to knock the wind out of them, leave them flat on their backs, feel their veins pound with a mixture of adrenaline and relief.

"Idiot," breathed George, hitting Fred in the arm.

Fred rolled over in the cool grass and grinned at him. "I think you mean brilliant."

George rolled his eyes. "You could have killed yourself."

Fred grabbed George's hand in his own and squeezed it hard. "You always were," he said, "the more careful one."

"Good thing, too, or you would have been gnome food by morning."

Fred rested his head on George's shoulder as they stared at the wide expanse of stars in the dark night, a forest of bright, white lights over the endless black.

"You're always saving me," muttered Fred, half grateful, half annoyed.

"That's what I'm here for," George answered back, and this time he squeezed his twin's hand. "You can count on it."

"George?"

George snapped back to the present at the sound of Percy's voice.

They were in his and Fred's room, sitting on George's bed. He hadn't spoken since seeing Fred's body, which suited him just fine. He had nothing he wanted to say. To speak, his mind would have to organize a thought, and all it was doing right now was sifting through memories and random sounds that made no sense: screams, whispers, static.

Maybe he was going mental. That would be a relief; at least then he would have an excuse to act any way he wanted to. He could shut himself in his room for the rest of his life and no one would do anything. Tempting, that.

"George?"

Percy again.

George tuned him out, looking out the window. It was dark now, which he liked. The sun outside of Hogwarts had been too bright for his eyes.

He brought his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. From here, he could just see the tops of the trees of the garden and the dark sky above them. He remembered that night with Fred all those years ago: the nervous anticipation that made his hands tremble, the rough feel of the wooden broom against his skin, the brief, terrifying fall with his brother at his side. He could almost see the two young boys, small and clad in red flannel, racing around the sky, chasing stars and shadows.

George stared out the open window into the night sky, and pretended he could see them now.

***

A/N: Ashley Hauck is a character of my own creation, and there are more answers and explanations to come in the next chapter.

Here are some even more interesting things to look forward to in later chapters: Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, more of George's memories, and Draco interrogated at the Ministry.